


His favourite M-words

by Anonymous



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Teen!Stans, comforting ford, ish, pre-science project, very lightly implied incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 13:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11464971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Stan's feeling a little blue, Ford helps him.For the Summer of Stancest - Mykonos prompt





	His favourite M-words

Stan hunches his shoulders, cold fingers jammed deep into his pockets. His white t-shirt offers minimal protection against the biting chill of the autumn wind.

He sighs, pain coalescing in his sides as his chest expands. Boxing practice was never pleasant, but somehow the aftermath was worse, the constellation of bruises on his skin only seemed to shift and twist but never fade.

He hates boxing too, in a way. Not good enough to go professional and get out of here and yet the force in his fists was the only thing he really had.  What had his teacher’s used to write in his report cards? M-something. Mediocre. _Mediocre performance, needs to work harder_. But he did work hard, it just didn’t help – nothing seemed to. That’s what he was at his best, not even smart enough to understand the words people used about him. _Christ._

He pushes these thoughts away, focusing instead on cataloguing the various scrapes and bruises on his body. Grounding his mind within his body and thankfully, the soreness was no worse than usual.

He walks quickly, buildings lengthen and grow clustered, blocking the red smear of the setting sun, casting long, dark shadows on the streets below. The sultry saltiness of the air is weaker, less cloying. The thick scent of smoke and dirt overpowers it, he is home.

The door for Pines Pawns looms before him, old, rough wood, the glass cut-out fogged up so that he can’t see inside. He pushes his way in and grunts at his father in greeting moving across the store, neither waiting nor expecting a response. Stan runs up the stairs, taking two a time, hearing them creak under his weight, barely muffling the hypnotic croon of his mother as she swindles another client.

He wants to collapse into his bed and hide himself away until this was over. He wants to run far far away. His hands shake as he fiddles open the sticky door handle, he is so close.

When it finally opens, he staggers through the room to his bed and throws himself down. Ford barely notices him, his head is hidden behind a book on the top bunk. He closes his eyes, relishing the softness of the sheets on his face before turning around, his bandaged hands resting soft on his stomach.

“Sixer.”

Ford hums in response.

“Do you ever wish you were older or different or _just_ —”

He can feel Ford look up from his book, stroke his finger down the page before shutting it, as though he were loath to look away from it. He always does that when someone disturbs him while he is reading.

“Sometimes, Stan.”

He hears a soft exhalation, the creak of the bed as Ford lays down, and Stanley knows in the very marrow of his bones that their positions are identical.

“I just wanna get out of here, you know?” He sounds plaintive, whining.

“We will, one day.” Ford is so sure.

Stan doesn’t know if that makes him scared or happy. And for Ford it is easy, Ford is the smart one, the one with all the gifts and promise and future. Everyone knew he was meant for bigger and better things and…Then there was Stan.

He remains silent.

“What brought this on?”

His brother’s voice is right above him yet miles and miles away.

“Just thinking was all.” Stan knows he sounds tired.

“You? Thinking? That’s new.” Ford snorts. There is no malice in his voice.

Because it is true.

Stan curls in on himself. Tucking his face into his pillow.

“Stan?” Ford is worried.

“M'fine, just sleepy.” Stan mumbles, letting exhaustion bleed into his voice.

Ford doesn’t seem to believe him. He hadn’t quite expected him to.

Ford slips off the top bunk, and he can feel the tremor in the old wood as he moves, the thud as he lands on the floor of the bedroom, his knees bent, toes probably wiggling in the thick carpet. Stan knows his brother. He can feel his scrutiny, can see the cogs in his mind whirling, his glasses flashing—

Ford settles down next to him, rubbing at his shoulder. His fingers are a warm and soothing weight.

“You’re cold, did you not take your jacket?” Stan knows that he is frowning.

He only cuddles into the sheets further.

“Stan, do you want me to tell you what I’m reading about?”

At this Stan has to turn around to glare at his brother.

Sixer smiles, his hands out spread in front of him in a placating gesture, entirely unself-conscious.

“You’ll like it, I swear.”

He looks so excited and Stan shifts to the side, making space for his brother.

“If it’s about fancy physics mumbo jumbo I’m gonna clock you.”

“It’s a zoological study of islands in the Aegean sea with a focus on geography and evolutionary—“

Stan stares at him uncomprehendingly.

“Perhaps it’s better if I showed you.” Ford darts upwards to grab the book.

It is thick, dusty and entirely unappealing to Stan’s eye but he can see thick, white photo-paper sandwiched between yellowing pages. That was promising. Ford reverentially opens it and Stan watches as he peruses through dozens of photographs of miscellaneous animals and plants before—

“Shit, Sixer that place is beautiful.”

And it was, the picture was fuzzy and old but the water looked crystal clear, the sand was startlingly white. It was a far cry from Glass Shard beach’s iron dark sea and rocky shoreline. Pain and fear forgotten, Stanley just stares.

“It’s—It’s called Mykonos. It’s a small island and I’ve always wanted to travel and well it is quite pretty and we’ll go there one day, on the Stan-O-War.” Ford takes a deep breathe; his eyes dark, piercing and quietly resolute. “Together _, I promise._ ”

Ford knits their hands together, his thumb tracing delicate patterns, almost like letters, over Stan’s knuckles where the bandaging has torn slightly. Stan stares at their intertwined fingers, infinitely grateful in ways he cannot possibly verbalize, and squeezes.

**Author's Note:**

> Ford writes mine on Stan's hand, pass it on


End file.
